


Failure to Breathe

by silentexplorer18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy's kind of a jerk, Fear of disappointing parents, Gen, Panic Attacks, Shame, Short, There's no romance in this work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23979565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentexplorer18/pseuds/silentexplorer18
Summary: After a rough day, you have a panic attack.  However, someone finds you during the middle of it.  His response is surprising, to say the least.
Kudos: 18





	Failure to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little blurb from a dialogue request I got over on [Tumblr](https://silentexplorer18.tumblr.com/) for: "I can't breathe" and "Swear to me." I hope you enjoy!

He’s said you would fail, and he was right. He was always right. Your father was ashamed of you, ashamed of your wringing hands and confused questions and complete lack of understanding when it came to potions. There was just so _much_ to it. The ingredients all sounded the same, the directions were always hard to keep track of, and your results were always mediocre at best. And today, you’d been at your worst.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad, but even the things he thought should be easy you weren’t getting right. Maybe if he’d kept a clock in the house instead of always using a charm for the time, you would’ve understood the difference between clockwise and counterclockwise. But you didn’t. And that was only the beginning of a long train of missteps where your potion eventually devolved from cure to poison in a matter of minutes. The eruption was incredible. Snape even looked _impressed_ by the amount you were capable of messing up.

But now the chaos had subsided into the hour before dinner and you were leaning in a long forgotten hall of the dungeons panting as the realization struck you: your father would know.

It was bad enough he was one of the best brewers on this half of the wizarding world, but a mistake of this level was unacceptable for even the average brewer. You’d certainly get a letter. An angry one. Another like all the others stashed in your trunk, cries of shaming the family with your whirlwind of educational troubles undermining any accomplishments you made.

The thoughts had your head spinning, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. You were a disgrace, a disgrace of utter proportions.

Your breath was coming in uneven bursts, the world around you growing hazy from more than just your watering eyes.

And then there were the footsteps. “Hey! What are you-”

Of course someone would find you in an unused hallway. Of course it would be today. Of course you’d get in trouble on top of trouble. But you couldn’t focus on that, not when you were sliding down the wall, wobbly on your feet.

“What’s wrong with you?” The question is brutal, jarring, but your fingertips are numb and your lips are tingling and you need to calm down first and foremost so you ignore the harsh words and focus instead on the hand squeezing your shoulder, the way it grounds you just a little bit to the here and now.

**“I can’t breathe,”** you pant out swaying again. “I just can’t breathe.”

His grip is like a vice, but the pain pulls you from the shame swirling through your head so you take it. “I need to take you to Madam Pomfrey.”

You sway again, pulling away from him to slide to the floor. You don’t think you’ll faint. You _can’t_ faint. You refuse to allow yourself to faint. But you rest against the ground just in case. “No.” That came out far too wobbly.

“No?”

“No.” That’s better. “It’ll pass.”

He’s staring at you warily, you can see it in the edge of your vision, but you focus on a crack in the wall, still breathing far faster than you should.

“A panic attack?”

So he knows. “Yes.”

Then you feel a pressure on your hands. He’s holding them, pressing them against his chest. “Breathe with me.” So you do. He keeps your hands against his heart, and you do your best to ignore the racing beat underneath them. Your fingertips feel numb, but the longer he rubs his thumb against the back of your hand, coaches you through your unsteady breaths, the tingles begin to fade, and your breath begins to come in much more steady intervals.

When you’re breathing fine, he retracts from you, placing your hands back on your lap.

“You can’t tell anyone about this.” He sounds much less kind now that you’re breathing steadily again.

“Why not?” You know he doesn’t enjoy his reputation being tarnished, but surely a little compassion couldn’t hurt it that much.

“Word can’t be getting around that I’d help someone like _you_.”

Oh. So it’s like that.

“You can’t tell anyone. **Swear to me.** ”

You gape at him for a moment, surprised by his insistence, but you nod, face becoming impassive. “I won’t. I swear.”

He nods once. Definitive. Like sealing a deal.

Then he rises, swiping a hand through his pristinely placed hair. “Alright, then.”

And he walks away.

It would almost have been upsetting. But you don’t let the insult weigh on your chest too deeply. You know his secret, the one he’s trying to hide under all those insults. He _knows_. Because he’s had them, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
